


the surface changes

by amethystos (oscillos)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscillos/pseuds/amethystos
Summary: In need of a new disguise for a mission, Six is forcefully saddled with Siete's sewing expertise.Unfortunately for Six, these things are never as simple as they seem when Siete is involved.(Happy 76 week!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be a one-shot for 76 Week covering a few themes but it got out of hand, oops. Rating is for future content.

Unacceptable.

Six shifts his weight back and forth, the burgundy-patterned throw rug beneath his feet feeling too plush for his liking, yet not enough to distract him from the fingertips trailing down the back of his calf.

Fingertips weathered and rough from handling the grip of an unruly sword— countless swords, in fact— strong, capable hands that undeniably belong to a fighter, and one of skill, at that. Not that Six has touched many hands to know the differences between them, when he can avoid it, but he has his own for reference, and it's glaringly obvious all at once.

Siete's hands are like _his_.

...Except, they're not: not with the way they press warmly to his ankle, thumb light on the tendon where it juts out. He can't ignore it, sensing too acutely the presence of the Eternals leader hovering behind him, Siete's spontaneity hanging over Six's thoughts sharper than a dagger to his throat.

He thinks he'd prefer the blade. Anything over Siete's palm sliding up the tender flesh of the back of his knee, gentle but _very much there_ , feeling alien and—

—And it's _unacceptable_. He kicks his opposite foot back, his bare heel catching the other in the shoulder with a hearty _thump_. Siete yelps with indignation and the touch is yanked away.

"Fool," Six barks from behind his mask, crossing his arms and glancing behind him heatedly, feeling vulnerable in just the underclothes they all typically wear beneath their armor, "What are you doing? Get on with it."

His eyes land on Siete, who's slumped on his knees and rubbing his shoulder, a soft measuring tape squashed together in his other hand. Six realizes his mistake in looking a moment too late: the lack of Siete's usual gaudy armor paints a particular image, the dark clothing usually hidden beneath clinging to his frame; the wide slope of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the crease in his pants where his legs meet his body. Weak points, _vulnerability_.

Siete pushes a hand through his displaced hair with a huff, shoving those criminal shocks of blond out of his eyes and back, and their eyes meet. His face scrunches up behind his mask, and he has to turn away from the image of Siete on his knees, scowling.

Dressed down like this and alone, they seem too _familiar_. Close. Years ago, back in Karm, he would have killed Siete for daring to touch him like this— it's unacceptable.

"—I am, I am!" Siete grouses dramatically, pouting in that graceless way only a grown man can pout, "You can't rush _art_ , you know?"

Six sighs discontentedly, "...It's fortunate, then, that you'll be making nothing of the sort."

"That isn't very nice, Six!" Siete tuts, his eyebrows wiggling.

"You stroke your own ego enough," Six grumbles back with a hint of exhaustion, crossing his arms, "Why would I bother...?"

"You should be cheering me on, if only for the sake of the mission," Siete resumes taking measurements behind him, his words partially dampened by the quill he holds in his mouth in between jotting numbers down, "Also, I would like it."

 _Those are the same thing... idiot_ , Six's brows furrow beyond his mask, and his eyes drop to the full-length mirror Siete has him stood in front of.

Seeing himself like this is bad enough; without his armor, his weapons— but seeing the leader of the Eternals crouched behind him like some overgrown frog, a quill between his lips and a tape measure in his hand...

That, and Siete's palm inching up the back of his thigh. Yet, when the other's face comes into view in the mirror every now and again, Six can see the concentration settling between his eyes, the frown that drags the feather-end of the quill down, just barely skirting touching the back of Six's leg.

It's all pleads _ridiculous—_ so, why?

... _The mission_. That's right.

> _"Calling me out here like this..." Six had hissed into the blustering wind on the deck of their airship, moored for the night, and approached the telltale bright crown of hair where the tall figure was leaned against the ship's port side railing._
> 
> _"You came, Six!" Siete croons casually into the wind, a wide smile across his mouth. His cape flaps around in the wind around him, as does his errant pieces of hair, but that damned man looks as easygoing as always._
> 
> _Six's fingers twitch at the appearance of it all so he puts them both, armored and clawed, upon the railing beside the Eternals leader, a concession to where he'd like them to be— around Siete's throat... and only because he'd probably just laugh. "Out with it," he grumbles without looking, scanning the murky, overcast view of the stars beyond their island, instead._
> 
> _"I know it may be hard to believe—" Siete starts with a chuckle, leaning back on his elbows until his crazed hair pokes into view despite Six's best efforts, "but beneath this cool, collected exterior, I've been very busy!"_
> 
> _"You better get serious," Six mutters with a hidden scowl, "Or I'll leave."_
> 
> _"When have I been anything but, Six?"_
> 
> _Six turns his masked face beneath his hood. Siete's head is rolled backward on his shoulder, his face turned toward him with a leer lacking in even an ounce of shame— despicably like him. Siete seems to get the message, though, because something subtle shifts in his eyes and his smile thins into something more subtly aggressive._
> 
> _"...I need you to go undercover again."_
> 
> _"Again?" Lacing his fingers together, Six hunches over the railing. He can see a light in the distance: a window cracked open on the airship, letting the breeze in, and Six shakes his head. Probably Sarasa. "...Another tournament?"_
> 
> _"How very perceptive of you!" Siete laughs, "Yes, yes, another tournament. But this time, it's a little different..."_
> 
> _"Hm...?"_
> 
> _Different didn't sound good._ Different _brought to mind missions Six has tried to erase from his memory: most ending in ways embarrassing to him either first or secondhand, both being equally uncomfortable._
> 
> _"Six," The Eternals leader stands up next to him, the differences in their heights forcing Six to tilt his face up. A particularly powerful gust of wind pushes between them, ruffling Siete's hair and cape around his face and penetrating Six's armor with its chill— when it subsides, the smile is gone from Siete's face._
> 
> _"This time, I need you to win, Six."_
> 
> _Six almost thinks he doesn't hear it correctly— he straightens up from the railing, his face jerking in the other's direction: Siete's eyes bore down into his from where he looms above Six, and something in his gut clenches; the prickle of fight that still sits restlessly in the pit of his heart putting him on edge._
> 
> _To be victorious is a different thing than winning. The Eternals didn't win, they protected balance; their victory transcended something as petty as first or second place, even Six knew that, as reticent as he could be toward his duty._
> 
> _"What?" Six questions with a rasp, and from Siete's following stillness he wonders if he's been heard at all. "...Explain yourself."_
> 
> _After a moment of his eyes on Six, Siete relaxes, and the moment is broken._
> 
> _"That shouldn't be hard, right?" He drawls, the crude smile from earlier slipping back onto Siete's lips,"After all, it's you."_
> 
> _He tries to clap a hand onto Six's shoulder, but it's easily dodged, Six taking a fast step back across the wooden deck and away from the Eternals leader. Recognizing immediately that whatever that was is all he's going to get out of the man, Six turns to leave with a scoff, not pausing when Siete's voice calls out behind him:_
> 
> _"Ah, wait! Wait! that's not all!"_
> 
> _Siete scrambles over until he's walking quickly beside him, this time thankfully keeping his hands to himself, "As for the disguise, this time I have something particular in mind..."_

...And that's how he'd gotten into this situation: sticking out in Siete's cabin like a sore thumb, surrounded by the other's belongings; bits of his harried life and travels so vast Six can't hope to bring context to them all. He doesn't want to, either— knowing how many of them likely wouldn't make sense to him, given how many pies Siete seems to have his fingers in across the Skydoms at all times.

What do they see, in Siete?

Six's brow wrinkles behind his mask as the warm brush of the man's palm across his calf drag him rudely back to the present and immediate.

"Whatever..." Six grumbles belatedly, having lost the thread of their back and forth, and keeps his eyes off the mirror, "Just don't waste my time more than you have already."

Siete simply hums vaguely from behind him, lowering his measuring tape and rising to his feet with an exaggerated _oof_.

"Then why don't we move on to something else?" He says, and when Six turns toward him, reaches for his mask without hesitation.

"Let's just get this out of the way, shall we?"

Six's stomach gives a lurch at the sudden advance, and he steps back with an audible intake of breath, "Siete—"

His shoulder bumps into the mirror, and with a panicked glance backward, Six realizes he's cornered— but in the same moment, Siete's outstretched hand goes limp at the wrist before it can come any closer to touching his mask.

Six is unable to read his expression up until the corner of his mouth shoots up into a smirk.

"...Just kidding!" Siete grins and raises his hands in surrender, and it's only stepping away that saves him from plans of murder only those of Karm have access to, "...For now."

Unable to relax, Six squares the drawn-up slant of his shoulders instead, and scoffs. Siete tosses the now-bundled measuring tape onto his dresser, the location duly noted in the event Six needs to strangle him later, and as the meaning of Siete's words finally sink in, that _later_ is feeling a lot closer.

"—' _For now'_?" Six repeats with open disdain.

Siete grins wolfishly, and Six's stomach sinks, "You didn't think we were finished with the whole thing, did you? We're just getting started."

Six is silent, retrieving his cape from where it'd been set earlier and pulling it over his shoulders and head, secure over his ears. Once he's carefully gathered his things, he levels Siete with a look he should be able to _feel_ , mask or not, voice deadpan. "I refuse."

The response is instantaneous: Siete deflates with a whine, following Six toward the cabin door as he moves to leave. "It's too late for that, Six! I already entered you in the competition!"

The Eternals' leader's shadow covers his as Six moves to open the door, and turning his face, he's met by Siete looming far too closely, a hand raised.

"Touch me again and you'll be sewing yourself more than new clothes," he says.

Six takes the following opportunity to slip out of Siete's room and into the narrow wooden hallways of the Grandcypher, half tempted to ignore the call of his name that follows after him.

" _Siiix—_ "

Six pauses, but he doesn't look, feeling something in his face twitch. If someone is disturbed by Siete's racket, he'll feel partially responsible... although it's none of his business what trouble Siete gets into himself, Six is reticent to the idea of having to deal with the fallout of the confrontation.

It would be awkward. Siete would probably revel in it.

Six does the next best thing instead, raising his voice gruffly, enough to be heard where Siete still lingers at his cabin door.

"If you're going to stay, they'll expect you at dinner."

It goes unsaid that Six won't be there. The crowd today is too large, many having returned temporarily to the ship between missions. But Siete should be.

"So, we can pick this back up tomorrow, then?" Siete's voice comes from behind him, and despite everything, the casual, calm levity that's fast replaced the exaggerated complaints from before makes Six glance over his shoulder. Again, he regrets looking, knowing that the reaction only stuffs his ego to the already overflowing brim— but regardless, Siete is leaned against the wall beside his cabin with his arms crossed comfortably, and raises his brows with an expectant smile.

Six turns away.

"Absolutely not. I'm busy." He doesn't stop walking, this time.

"Goodnight!" Siete's voice rings down the hall after him, this time it's sure to be overheard.

\---

Tucked away in the safety of the near-darkness of his own cabin, efficiently plain and well-kept, Six sits down on the edge of his cot, putting down the pieces of his mask on the table beside it. Pressing the heels of his palms tightly against his closed eyes, a long, silent exhale passes his lips until it wavers the flame of the open lantern beside his bed, threatening to leave him in darkness— usually a friend to him, but not right now. Darkness promises sleep, and within that an unavoidable truth, one of several:

He isn't busy tomorrow, and he's going to have to go back. Damn it all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is high in the sky over the Grancypher, covering everything beneath it.

No matter who you spoke to, anyone across the Sky could concur that the concept of _legend_ is a currency stronger and more far-reaching than a fistful of gold coins.

Island to island and throughout the Skydoms at large, you'd be hard-pressed to find a place lacking in some manner of such tale or myth _,_ whether it be in the smallest village to the largest metropolis, from soft earth to hard iron— daily life was _rife_ with it. Conveyed as stories set in the back of children's minds by their elders or priests or leaders, they often existed to warn, to teach, and in some cases even to control; to adults as rigid rites or as gossip of comfort and humor or intrigue, carried ever farther by the flow of skyfarers from port to port.

> _"They say the tide in Auguste Isles comes and goes with the sleeping breaths of Leviathan."_
> 
> _"He told me the Black Knight of Erste's helmet is hiding a devilishly handsome face!"_
> 
> _"—'you see that? I heard seeing an Opal Carbuncle at dawn is s'posed to be a sign of good luck from the Primals."_

—Though harmless for the most part, the stories of so-called legends were often unsubstantiated hearsay, and so Six calls them as they are: rumors. But even rumors can hold a kernel of truth.

> " _In a misted isle walk those cursed by Celeste to never know the relief of death."_
> 
> _"Did you know? The Karm clan was completely annihilated by one of their own! How could someone do such a thing?"_
> 
> " _Have you heard of the Eternals? They say their leader gathered only the strongest fighters from across the sky... kinda dangerous, don't you think?"_

Standing in the warmth of Siete's cabin, a stripe of sunlight spilling through the cracked window to fall across the hand splayed across the top of his thigh, Six eyes the bright slice of blue visible beyond the windowsill and strongly considers the validity of one such rumor he'd heard only recently: that falling into the Sky between islands sent you tumbling forever into it, never to return.

The prospect is tempting. Once again, Six has found himself with the leader of the Eternals— a living legend in his own right, if you _wanted_ to look at it that way— at his feet, a tape measurer in hand and a smile perched on his lips.

Siete's other hand joins his first on the opposite side of Six's thigh, wrapping the soft measuring tape around its width before pinching the tape together one-handed, to give him the ability to jot down on a scrap of parchment beside him. Hidden behind his mask, Six closes his eyes with a twitch of irritation— now that his thoughts have grasped the edge of it, he doesn't know who is better to put that rumor to the test with: him, or _Siete_.

Knowing him, Siete would find his way back, somehow, and be twice as insufferable. He always did.

"Uh."

Mumbling around the quill perched between his lips, Siete at least has the decency to look awkward as he shimmies the tape up the meat of Six's thigh and over the edge of his shorts, the bunch of thick muscle twitching visibly in discomfort, "You okay up there, Six? We can take a break if you—"

Six lets out an indignant huff through his nose, his warm breath immediately scattering back onto his own face where it's trapped stubbornly beneath his mask. So continues the travesty of disguise fabrication.

"Don't be preposterous," He grunts, "just do what needs to be done."

....So, maybe Six _is_ a little tense. There's hardly an alternative available to him in this situation, though— Siete's been all smiles since he'd ended up back here in the leader's cabin after stoutly refusing the day previous, and even worse than that, Siete has been nothing but _considerate._ Without the presence of the other Eternals members to bounce off and beat down Siete's airy exuberance, the short-lived jeers the two of them usually exchange seem too soft-edged and casual, the sharpness of Six's quick tongue losing out again and again to the fact that Siete _always has something to say._

Try as Six might, Siete's comebacks end up being just like that stripe of sunlight across the cabin: once it finds a way in, there's no ignoring its glow, no matter how dark the rest of the room may be.

"In that case, why don't we get the mask done and outta the way?" Siete suggests lightly, very pointedly not looking up from his work. It isn't enough to spare him.

"Don't push your luck," Six reminds coolly, nudging the tip of his boot against the inside of one of the other's bent knees in a subtle threat, and to Six's satisfaction is rewarded by Siete actually looking up at him with a jolt, staring owlishly. "Where I stand I could have you unconscious before you had even the chance to blink."

His satisfaction is short-lived, however, as a smirk spreads across Siete's mouth.

"Oooh," Siete sighs dramatically, and still smiling, rises to his feet, "—and don't I know it."

Now standing at his full height and much too close, Siete's... _everything_ is overwhelming, but Six doesn't back down, instead raising his chin just enough to stay even. He'd cross his arms, but there's no room between them, and the possibility of accidentally touching the Eternals leader in this situation is highly undesirable.

"Quite a few of your measurements are off from my estimates, you know," Siete's voice drops to a stage whisper, "Six, could it be you're training in secret? Getting your summer bod ready?"

Six's mouth drops open, but no sound comes out—and from the way Siete's smirk transforms into a teeth-baring grin, you'd think his mask were transparent. Six guffaws and has to force down the urge to step away. "What—"

Siete laughs suddenly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, and Six has to talk over the sound of his cackle to get it out, narrowly stifling the urge to jab him in the ribs. This time, Six's voice is strong, "—Exactly _what_ garbage is leaving your mouth?"

Still chuckling, Siete is clearly pleased with himself.

"-aha... I'm saying you're strong, of course. Don't you know a compliment when you hear one?"

Six feels his face twitch.

"...A compliment from you is as good as an insult to me."

"Now, Six, there's no reason to insult _me_. I could make you look like Captain from the competition last time," Raising his brows, Siete gestures with his measuring tape once again. "You should be careful. Now, raise your arms, if you would?"

Slowly and with more stiffness in his arms than he'd have liked ideally, Six obliges and raises his bent arms halfway, if only because he can see no other option available. He finds himself holding his breath when Siete leans in to wrap the soft tape around the width of his hips from back to front, pulling it just short of taut, as if buckling a belt, and Six immediately hates the feeling immensely. His body is stiff in discomfort in contrast to the ease with which Siete seems to move, as light and self-assured as the bit of sun creeping up Six's bare ankle.

"It's not an insult if it's true," Six says, deadpan, wishing he could inch away from the warm sunlight tickling his leg, among other things— _people_ , "...and you wouldn't dare."

The light press of his clothing beneath the tape makes him want to squirm away from it— but it's wrapped around him, so it would be a fruitless and frankly embarrassing effort. His muscles tense up, instead, and he huffs to release any bit of it, Siete's relaxed eyes sliding sideways in his direction.

"And why wouldn't I?" Siete hums without stopping, and pinched together at the front by his fingers, the loop of tape starts to drift upward, trailing over a scar hidden beneath Six's clothes. The back of his neck begins to feel clammy, shivering down to his back, ever-stifled by his Eternals garb. It's an old scar, one he'd barely noticed... until now.

"There'd be one less crew member in the Eternals as a result, is why," He says, though it's one reason of many. Six swallows as the tape pulls snug over a wound he'd stitched up himself some years earlier, and tells himself the brief itch that ensues is purely psychological. It doesn't help.

"So embarrassed you'd have to go into hiding, eh?"

The tape drifts up Six's lower back and flips, and Siete has to lean in around his side to get a visual to flip it back over— and as his fingertip dips beneath the tape against the small of his back, a simple, brief pressure, the slow trickle of discomfort Six has been stifling comes to a sudden head in the worst way. As if to strike the final nail into his coffin, he catches a scent as Siete leans back— _his_ scent, he realizes, and one he's been smelling all over the room, all along.

They're all simple, inane details, but awareness of his foolishness does nothing to tamp down the unexpected tightness crawling up his throat.

Siete's fingers drag under the edge of the measuring tape until it's seated correctly across his waist, and as he reaches Six's front it pulls all of his vague misgivings on this— the closeness, the privacy of the situation— into clarity as if tugged along by the swordsman's roughened fingertips, a thought that occurs so casually and gruesomely, it should be shameful:

—that Siete could _gut_ him right now, if he wanted to.

He won't, he never would, but he could. He _could,_ and that's enough to wring Six's spine as taut as the strings on Nio's koto, his nails digging into his palms and his ears pricking high and back, having to concentrate to stop them from folding against his hair.

"I didn't mean myself, _Siete_." He sneers loudly behind his mask, more venom seeping into Siete's name than he'd intended for a jeer, and the other stops and casts a _look_ at him, the tape going slack. Or maybe it had already been slack, he doesn't know, he truthfully hadn't been paying attention.

Siete's hands are lowered, the measuring tape keeping Six caged in with him, but as usual, Six can't discern a damn thing from Siete's expression, and instead feels only the weight of his scrutiny.

Six shifts his weight from one foot to the other, jaw tight behind his mask, and lets his gaze drift toward the ceiling, careful not to move his face. The feigned guise of closeness in Siete's touch may be what's making him uncomfortable, but once again Six is the one who's made it awkward, and in record time.

After a long second of watching him out of his peripheral, though, Siete chuckles. Six's eyes snap back down— Siete is looking right at him, one side of his mouth quirked. The arch of his brows feels different in a way Six can't place, but the measuring tape drops on one side, so it doesn't matter.

"Heh. You contradicted yourself before, you know." Siete says artlessly and takes a step away to jot something down on his parchment, the quill and paper rustling beside them.

Six blinks, his voice feeling stuck to his tongue. "What are you on about?"

"' _It's not an insult if it's true,'"_ He repeats lightly in his own voice, rather than imitating Six's. Turning back, he extends the tape between his fingers, giving a jerk with his chin toward where Six's arms have slumped closer to his sides. "A little higher, please."

Six stares, and very belatedly, he gets it: t _he compliment._

Fool. Of course Siete hadn't been bothered— it's just _him_.

"...Fine."

"Thank you," Siete croons, and Six turns his face away as he again draws near. "This won't take long."

The swordsman gets back to work as if nothing had happened, though Siete doesn't try to pull the tape around his back again. His palms _do_ come up to rest very lightly against Six's chest over his shirt, however, measuring first across his ribs, then chest, stretching the tape from one armpit to the other across the swell of muscle— but he works fast and quietly enough that Six can't bring himself to berate him any farther, even if he winches beneath his mask when Siete's fingers brush over areas unexpectedly sensitive.

The quiet stretches until Six is allowed to drop his arms and can find it in himself again to complain.

"...I don't understand why this has to be so elaborate. Can't we just use something we already possess?"

"It's an _elaborate_ event, Six, they'll be expecting the best," Siete murmurs, the crinkle of the parchment sounding again, "I'm afraid it's not as simple as hiding in plain sight this time... but I can always make it black again, if you want."

The battle royale at the Albion Citadel— like it had even mattered much, that time. Six had been knocked out of the ring because of Al-Khalid's treachery before his nebulous identity had even become a problem. Thankfully the Grancypher's captain had gone on to finish the job, but...a loss in combat still stung, however crooked the method. And Six was _used_ to crooked.

"It worked, didn't it?" Six grumbles, "I don't care, do what you want. It's only for the purposes of the mission, nothing more." He warns, "... so long as you don't make me look like a peacock."

When he tilts his head back to look at Siete with the expectation of some catty response, like _I loved that cape_ , or _Okaaay, Mr. Pitch-Black Punisher,_ he's instead again faced with an expression he can't decipher— though this one strikes him as familiar, Siete's eyes half-lidded and a loose smirk threatening to drag up one corner of his mouth. It reminds him of that _look_ from the deck of the Grancypher, the night he'd given Six the mission.

Siete stretches the tape from Six's belt all the way to his throat, the pad of his thumb pressing it to his nape like a blade, and smiles.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Six."

Six opens his mouth to respond, his face tilting back at the intrusion to his throat, but Siete's eyes suddenly focus on something beyond his face, on the wall behind them. His brows screw together and he frowns.

"Ah— shit," Straightening up, Siete coils the tape over one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He offers Six an apologetic look. "Looks like we'll have to stop here for now, sorry."

Glancing behind him at the clock placed high on the wall beside the mirror, Six can confirm it's too early for dinner. He shrugs and leans down to grab his cloak without a query, itching to leave, but of course, Siete keeps talking above him anyway, a sense of wistfulness in his voice.

"Duty calls. Your humble leader has an envoy to catch."

Six pulls his Eternals cape on in one movement, the hood settling comfortably over his ears, and though he would never admit it, its weight on his shoulders already provides instant relief, having felt sorely underdressed without his armor. Once he's put back together, he settles Siete with a look, who's quickly pulling pieces of his own discarded armor on, his breastplate already affixed and the harness that holds his cuisses hanging limply at his thighs in his haste.

Bit by bit, the image of that _legend_ he'd heard about on the lips of skyfarers and over the counter of taverns during their travels stitches its way back together.

"...I've had enough of your blabber, anyway. It's a miracle you get anything done."

Siete yanks at the leather strap of one of his arm guards, pulling his gear tight over his arms before splaying a hand against his own chest, expression mournful. "Please, Six, you wound me. Your humble leader is a busy bee."

Six breathes out through his nose at the disjointed sight, the ensuing sigh long-suffering. He crosses the room to the door, his claws re-secured at his belt, and Siete is, naturally, still going.

"I can't help that everyone wants a piece of _this_ , you know," He laughs, leaning down to pull one of his boots on, the riveted armor gently knocking together as it straightens out, "Siete, the Star Sword Soverei-"

Six opens the cabin door abruptly, its swing nearly catching Siete off-balance, were Six not to stop it just short of bumping into the other man, a hand on the knob. Instead, Siete just ends up looking like a startled cat over nothing, his back arched and his arms stretched out in a comical effort to stay upright. _Good_.

"How you can even fit through the door with that ego is beyond me." He says, and steps through it, content to leave.

There's a rustle and a distinct _clank_ behind him in the room as Siete shuffles over the precipice, having the gall to grab onto the back of Six's cloak.

"Ah, hold on!"

Six pauses mid-step, his shoulders hunching at the light tension to his cape. He doesn't turn, knowing Siete will take it as an invitation to speak, anyway.

"Back here tomorrow, Six?" He asks.

"No." Six says at once, and pulls free, taking a few steps forward until he's safely out of arm's reach before looking over his shoulder, voice low. "Your quarters reek."

Siete is not to be deterred however, those antennae of his flopping out to the side as he hangs out the door with a hand on its frame, rubbing a bare hand over his face. "Hm. Yours, then?"

Behind his mask, Six closes his eyes, immediately feeling the urge to again answer _no._ He weighs his options quickly, with the day's... _experience_ in hand, and decides immediately that contrary to his former feelings, having Siete all over him in the presence of others is a fate that strikes him as worse than death. Even _Raduga_ — no, _especially_ Raduga would only be inviting the unending doting and scrutiny of everyone he's ever entertained for more than five sentences on the Grancypher.

The only thing worse would be the Eternals base, but that's also out of the question, and for more reasons than one, more than just _Siete_. It leaves him with little option but to entertain the swordsman in _his_ space, where he has some semblance of control or...

...or continue bearing the warm pleasantry of Siete's cabin here; the plush crimson throw beneath his feet, the sun peering down at him through the window, the smell of well-worn armor and parchment and _Siete_ all around him _._ No, that wouldn't do.

"...Fine." He spits, at long last.

"Aren't you going to wish me luck?" Siete calls behind him, exuberantly, "Not that I need it, of course."

Six scowls beneath his mask and keeps walking, muttering under his breath. "Be silent before you choke on your tongue."

Six isn't bothered when that's the last they hear from each other that day. They've never been ones for goodbyes— not Six, especially, content with passing through each others' lives as required of them. He along with the majority of the rest of the Eternals are as accustomed to each other's company as they are the lack of it: it's what makes Siete such a figure of legend—

—No. It's what makes Siete worth the _rumors_. His ability to wrangle together the most powerful fighters, opposing personalities included, to meter their differences in a way they can work together for a greater good, to put their lives on the line for it— it's that kernel of truth that invites people to see and _believe_. Even with everything that's happened, on the Grancypher, between the Eternals, across the ever-changing _Sky..._ Siete rages on like the sun, burning until you can't help but wonder when it will go out, shining with such ceaseless ferocity.

They all come together and part with the rise of the sun, and continue to do so, even when separated by many moons; those who accept Six for who he tries to be, and those who do, but only barely— over time and trepidation he'd grown accustomed to them all as facets in his life, entities that revolved in their own patterns, and so when they meet, it's only natural. When they have to spend time together, even for long periods, he can accept it as natural.

So why is he so bothered?

Why, when he gets back to his cabin, does he immediately cross its space and close the window with a rattle that surprises even him?

Six steps away from the window with a careful stillness, his hand retreating out of the sliver of light that still ekes through the cracks where the shutters meet, and backs up into what darkness he can scrounge, all the way until he's pushed up against the empty desk across from his bed. His thoughts from earlier resurge like the coming tide and it threatens to overtake him: a mishmash of discomfort and the acute sense of unearned intimacy, a camaraderie he fits into like a bent and bruised puzzle piece, waiting to be discovered out of place.

Without moving his eyes from the window, he runs his gloved hand along the same line as Siete's measuring tape— from his belt to the pulse in his neck, and holds it there, feeling the unsteady thrum against his fingertips, as if there were a blade to his throat. He swallows, a bare whisper of confusion hissing from his parted lips in the darkness.

"Siete..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six waits, and Siete is late.

The next night, Siete is nowhere to be seen.

It isn't unusual— not for an Eternal, and especially not for Siete. Things happen. Plans change. Weapons are bared or leads are uncovered: it's a rarity that anything went exactly as planned, and usually a highly suspicious one, at that. With the distance that often spanned between any handful of their number at any time, even the slightest delay could cause a rift in arrangements, and that was only considering the _person_ component of their delay lives, let alone the unpredictable nature of... well, _nature,_ whether that meant the environment itself or the meddling of something on a more Primal level.

It's just one more reason all ten Eternals are rarely in the same place at the same time, as much as Six knows Siete likes to fantasize otherwise— more than once loudly and miserably comparing their base hidden among the clouds as a nest ' _his little falcons had flown without so much as a goodbye_ '.

...But even besides that, Siete is almost always late, so Six doesn't overthink it. He only waits until the moon crosses over his window before blowing out his lamp and sleeping restlessly, as he often did.

\---

Siete is absent another day.

Six cleans and polishes nearly every weapon in the keep, scrubbing a fine cloth over hard steel until his fingers are aching and his hands coated in oil and grime. Passing Siete's room, he turns the cabin doorknob in passing, just to make sure Siete didn't return and die in his sleep— but it doesn't budge. The hall is empty and his attempt unseen, but it does nothing to quash the sense of foolishness rising in his chest.

He doesn't wait for the moon, that night, and sleeps restlessly as soon as he returns to his room.

\---

The next morning, Six takes a short mission from Fastiva, instead.

Embarking to replenish some inconveniently sourced (though _allegedly_ highly delectable) herbs, he ends up spending the majority of the waking light and his afternoon drudging through a swamp in search of the transparent, hydrophilic plants, growing just centimeters beneath the water's surface. The air is acrid to his sensitive nose where he wades into the mud barefoot, his lower armor left to the side of the stream, and Six ends up with his pants rolled up high enough to feel the tickle of his claws hanging at his belt— as wont as he is to be caught without armor and a shred more dignity, he's just as reticent of the idea of being bogged down by mud and ferns, much less having to clean it out later.

As he reaches a more secluded swath of water the air turns fresh and tangy, and the water less congested by nature's activity, ferns brushing against his shins. It's quiet and simple. To another, it may have even been relaxing— but it's too similar to places that linger in his past just behind his heels, and the silence invites him to link the humidity in the air and the smell of algae and sodden earth to deeper, darker memories.

He struggles to think of something else until the ghosts of his past quiet down, something inane and distracting— Nio's suggestion, nebulously offered at a time his _sound_ had given off what he didn't feel comfortable admitting, perhaps even to himself. Six thinks of Fastiva's description of the fizzy healing drinks she wanted the herbs for, the stink eye Vyrn had given him the morning previous when he'd declined to remove his mask, the sensation of the algae-covered water lapping at his legs as he moves toward the shore— none of it works, and instead he feels like he's sinking into the mud, the water turning thick and sticky. Wounds both new and old ache on his body beneath the surface of the swamp— across his knee, the back of his thigh, his wrist. Six pulls his hands out of the murky water, but the feeling remains.

He recalls standing under cooled or heated freshwater so cold then so hot he could barely stand it until he _could,_ of learning which of this similar biome's native plants could heal and which could hurt, and— perhaps most importantly— how to disguise one as the other; he remembers acutely the bitter taste of the verdant, purpled leaves he passes by in favor of his target ahead of him, too. Not a single heightened memory comes a surprise. Six has relived them countless times over the years, and much, much worse, and so he can bear it and the guilt that comes in tandem very easily. But ease does not beget a lack of feeling, roiling in the back of his mind as a churn of viscera, a sea of faces lacking peace.

The major difference between then and now is the minuscule voice in his head that suggests he shouldn't bear it alone. It grows with every passing year he'd left Karm, an unruly weed beaten down and nurtured both by the sun, taking root so deeply beneath his skin he cannot begin to think himself able to dislodge it, even if he wanted to.

The sodden earth-sand mixture beneath his foot suddenly slips as he reaches a dip in the water, the swamp water stinging against a more recent, deep scar on his wrist, and for a moment the slip of mud beneath his feet almost feels like-

"Ridiculous..." Six grunts, and lurches for the nearest obstinate thought, anything obnoxious and bright enough to take its place, as if Nio could read his mind and chide him. It's fortunate for him that one such memory offers itself to the forefront of his mind immediately, but unfortunate in that it's of _Siete,_ because of course, who could be more obtrusive?

 _..._ Siete, the last time they'd met. The comfortable humor in his voice, the irritatingly over-exaggerated lilt when he joked— the disturbing frankness that crept through now and again, blending with Siete's usual mannerisms to where Six can't tell what's real and what isn't...no, that isn't right. Over the years Six has started to grasp that it's never completely _fake,_ at least among the Eternals, just not genuine in an obvious way— the truth lying somewhere under the surface, at times too deeply for him to discern.

And then when he sees it, he feels like an idiot, like it had been obvious all along. Siete is known to him, and known very well, until suddenly he isn't.

Six's brows wrinkle beneath his mask as he digs his fingers gently into the soft soil beneath the edge of the water, freeing a clump of the shimmering, translucent green-purple herbs, their fragrance bursting to life and filling his nose with their bitter, earthy scent as they're exposed to air.

 _I wouldn't dream of it, Six,_ he'd said, with _that_ indiscernible look on his face, a smirk on his mouth; with his hands on Six's body and his thumb pressed to Six's neck. It makes something prickle in his throat, and Six shoves the clump of herbs into the satchel draping off his shoulder with a grimace before turning back to the shore, content to leave. The only thing he feels beneath is feet is the wet earth, Siete's voice ringing wordlessly in his mind.

\---

When he returns in the early evening, there's a note jammed into the seam of his cabin door.

The moment he sees the slanted handwriting on its cream surface, Six can't help the short but deep chuckle that bursts from his lips.

It reads: 

> _Miss me?_
> 
> _Don't forget your weapon tonight._
> 
> _p.s._
> 
> _Come alone._
> 
> _~ S._

Out of his peripheral, he can see several of the Grancypher's crew members skitter away down the hall, evidently startled by the outburst that continues to silently shake his shoulders beneath his cape, but Six pays them no attention— only narrowly stifling the urge to crumple the note in his palm.

That _fool_.

Without so much as entering his room, Six turns and storms back down the way he'd come, stalking toward the showers until his cape flows behind him, his hands balled into fists. If he's going to have to deal with Siete— with Siete's hands on him— it's not going to be with the dampness of sweat stuck to his skin and the tail end of his thoughts from the swamp along with them.

\---

Six takes his time coming back to his cabin from the showers— and the armory— his chosen weapon bundled up in a length of canvas tucked under his arm. The dark bravado he'd felt earlier, twisted up with frustration— that Siete can just stroll back in with hardly any notice and subject him to these... _discomforts_ — each step he takes slowly drains it until only a subtle sense of dread creeps up from below the surface.

He regrets asking Siete to come to his room, particularly. The emotion sits tightly in Six's chest as he draws near, the halls becoming less and less lively as he reaches the lowest and oldest floor of the ship, only the nigh imperceivable sound of his footsteps and the creaking of the Grancypher at its moor disturbing the silence.

What would Siete require of him, tonight? What could possibly be left? In what ways could he possibly have left to suffer, at Siete's gentle, invasive touch? Perhaps this is some small part of his penance.

With no recourse but to continue to the hall where his room is, Six doesn't falter, raising his chin high as he rounds the corner with a sufficiently dramatic turn of his cloak.

Paradoxically, the sight awaiting him outside his cabin door softens the blow of facing his fate substantially _._

Siete is leaned against his door with his arms crossed, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. A leather bag seemingly stuffed to the brim with what looks like paper and pins sits at his feet, slumped against the door. That's not the part that pulls a smirk across Six's hidden mouth, though—it's the look on Siete's _face,_ akin to someone caught locked out of their own home and trying very hard not to let anyone else know. But Siete is known to him.

"Just how long have you been lurking here? I'm surprised no one has reported you for stalking...," Six calls from the darkness with a sneer as he approaches Siete, whose eyes snap open with a shock that seems to travel down the length of his body.

"Six!" Siete grins sheepishly but stays leaned where he is. Adding to the ruse, he guesses.

Six can feel the Eternal's eyes shamelessly focused on his mask as he draws near, and chooses instead to ignore his greeting entirely, moving in to unlock the door to his cabin with a drawl. "...Perhaps they were leaving me the opportunity...how _kind_."

As usual, Six's insults seem to roll off of Siete like water. The Eternals leader turns onto his shoulder to face him with a sunny smile. "I see you got my message."

He sucks in a slow, audible breath before looking at Siete, who seems to have inched closer. The gesture is a mistake—Six's nose wrinkles beneath his mask as he recognizes Siete's scent, mixed in with the lingering smell of his own shower. "Message? _Loon_. These are my quarters."

Siete's eyebrows shoot up, his mouth pulling downward. "What? Didn't you get—"

Six chooses then to open the cabin door, sending Siete off balance _for real,_ this time, the door swinging wide with the weight of his body. Six walks past his undignified slump and into his room, setting the bundle containing his weapon down onto the short, empty side table beside the door before pulling Siete's note out of his cape to brandish it at him.

"' _Come alone_...'" Six quotes with disdain, holding the piece of parchment between two gloved fingers, as if dirty. "What sort of nonsense is this? You talk as if _you're_ the one being held captive."

Without asking, Siete follows him in (properly, that is, walking on his own two feet instead of half-falling over the precipice) and closes the door behind him by backing into it, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face.

"Ah, haha, it may or may not have slipped my mind we were supposed to meet back here when I wrote it," Siete chuckles, smoothing a hand down the front of his undershirt, Six's eyes trailing the movement, "But doesn't it sound cooler like that?"

Six's eyes snap back up to the other's face, notably the crooked grin across Siete's lips. He crosses his arms and turns away, sucking in through his teeth.

"...You're two days late. That's disgraceful even by _your_ standards."

"Sorry, sorry," Siete trills entreatingly from behind him, the sound of his voice coming closer to Six's turned shoulder, "You know how it goes with envoys—first they just want to talk, but then they want you to talk to someone else, and then _that_ someone-"

Six rolls his eyes before he can even stop it, raising a hand to silence the coming onslaught.

"Enough," He barks, looking at nothing in particular beyond the windowsill, a bit of purple-orange sky. "You're fortunate— I could be halfway across Phantagrande by now." Pausing, Six's voice dips low, with a leer, "If I'd known you were coming, I might have left earlier."

"You don't mean that, Six!" Siete may whine half-heartedly, but Six can hear the grin still in his voice, "Miss Fastiva told me you were still here, anyway. She says thanks, by the way...?"

Six grimaces, recalling how he'd spent his morning— or rather, _who_ he'd distracted himself with, followed by wondering just what the hell he's going to use to distract himself with through _this_.

It's already slipped his mind twice after Siete had entered his room just why they were alone like this, because that's just how Siete _is:_ he tended to do one of two things around members of the Eternals: make things better, or worse, and all without ever realizing.

...It's usually for the better. Now, though, with Siete in his room... he isn't so sure. The frustrating calm Siete's presence often instilled within him is jumbled, mixed up with strained boundaries— _weaknesses_ Six has difficulty challenging, even now, and it begins to verge into something just short of unease. Sharper, like energy unspent but with nowhere to go. He'd wanted to get this over with, but now Six is wondering if he'd been right to leave the swampland so quickly.

He turns to face the other Eternal, and of course, Siete is already behind him, the lazy smirk he'd known he'd heard right where he'd left it. "Siete," Six starts, "Is there a purpose to this meeting, or are you just here to invade my privacy?"

Siete raises a brow. "This is your own fault, you know. I liked it at my place. But I'll admit, it is nice to see your room here. There's...more than I thought," Siete's eyes slide past him and across the rest of the room, and Six snorts, knowing his cabin is unusually bare— at first glance. Most of his sparse belongings are kept elsewhere.

"Flowers?" Siete tilts his chin in the direction of Six's bedside set of drawers. Six doesn't need to look to know he's talking about the small bunch of blue flowers set delicately on its surface, so he doesn't, instead using the moment to look Siete over— mainly to take note of how little armor he's wearing, just his cape draped over his shoulders and his swords strapped at his hips.

He doubts the lack of armor is done out of trust toward the Grancypher's inhabitants, any more than Six's perpetually full arms meant distrust toward any specific person onboard. Siete probably just didn't want to have to spend the time stripping out of his armor in Six's room.

Six clears his throat, equally discomforted by the idea even if he'd done all but the same in Siete's room just a few days ago.

"...From that girl— Betor," he finally mutters, "...it would have been rude to refuse them."

Siete looks back at him, still smiling. "Cute."

Six has to force himself not to look away. His face feels warm beneath his mask at the attention, despite it being the truth. Betor's feelings would have been hurt, and she was only a child... or at least, childlike.

"...You still haven't answered my question," He grumbles, tilting his chin up at Siete in challenge; an innate form of defense.

It's rising up, now— the urge to leave, his own room or not. To escape, to sidestep the situation entirely, to go to whatever the hell Siete had planned for him as the _Pitch Black Punisher_ , instead. Siete is seemingly unfazed, humming and rolling his shoulders back until his shirt stretches at the shoulders.

"Ah, about that..." Siete glances around the room for a second before moving to haul the chair from Six's desk across the floor, turning it so it faces the bed. "We're getting to the fun stuff now, but it has to be functional. Weapon?" He raises a brow, to which Six looks in the direction of the bundle he'd left on the side table, and keeps going, "Good. But let's start with the gloves."

Siete pats the edge of the bed a few times before seizing his own belt, unclasping it to let his swords drop to the floor behind him with a _thud._ This time, Six _does_ look away by instinct, huffing discontentedly before getting started on his own chest piece. His fingers feel numb beneath his gloves as they skid over the surface of its lacing, prying it off of his chest by force, and as each piece comes off (slower, after, until he realizes he's purposely delaying) Six feels less and less certain—like a hermit crab caught without his shell.

The coolness of the air in his room and in the wooden flooring beneath his feet shouldn't feel as suffocating as it does, despite his room being the polar opposite of Siete's. Even his ears feel warm.

It's only after he's divested himself of the entirety of his armor, jacket, coat, and (very reticently) his gloves, the items set neatly and in order beside his bundled weapon, that Six turns around. The other is already seated in the chair across from Six's bed, and it's with a churn in his stomach that he realizes Siete is watching him, his expression unreadable in the darkening cabin light.

A moment later, though, Siete's lips turn upward into a teeth-baring grin, his eyebrows waggling as he again pats the bed in front of him gently, rattling something spread across his lap. He chooses then to speak, forcing Six to swallow his approaching scoff.

"...Unless you're ready to knock out the mask?"

The scoff makes it back up behind Six's mask anyway, his lips flaring as he seethes. " _Siete_."

Refusing to ' _knock out the mask'_ means he's more or less agreeing to do the rest, though.

Six sighs. Out of excuses, he forces his feet to move, shuffling over to his bed to sit stiffly at its edge. Siete is far enough away that he has no reason to sit anywhere but across from him— especially none that he can verbalize— so he edges over until they're even, unsure of where to put his hands, first setting them in his lap before coiling them over the edge of the bed. Siete is thankfully silent as he settles in, leaning down and away to grab something out of his bag— it leaves Six to stifle the urge to fidget in place. This is as uncomfortable as he'd expected, but it gets worse when Siete turns back and immediately uses his legs to scoot his chair closer to the bed— and, by relation, _him—_ Six's shoulders at once twitching upward, the hairs at the end of his ears standing on end.

All of that is to say, Six is looking _now_ , and Siete is looking right back at him, something gravely serious passing his face and the deep hollow of his eyes. His hands splay on his own spread knees and Siete levels him with an unclear look that has Six unconsciously tensing up.

"So..." Siete starts slowly, as if rolling the words around in his mouth like a dense toffee. "Can I touch you?"

...Six is thankful he has his mask to hide the myriad of expressions that cross his face in an uncomfortable instant. His fingertips press into the edge of the mattress, testing its give instead of biting his own tongue.

"...You didn't appear to have any reservations doing so before." Six settles on, thickly.

"...Right," Siete sighs and slumps a little, at that, the straight length of his arms crooking, a smile springing onto his mouth. "—I'm going to assume that's Six-speak for ' _yes, Siete, and what a gentleman you are for asking!_ '"

Six's face twitches under his mask, recognizing the high-browed, dimple-cheeked look on Siete's face as one he's seen often. What it means in words doesn't matter, as the purpose changes depending on the circumstances— but it's clear enough that he's just being _Siete,_ and nothing else, and the harsh line of Six's shoulders soften.

...If Siete can manage to be so unguarded, so frank to the point of shamelessness in such a closed, falsely intimate space, then shouldn't he try, if only for the sake of the mission...? Would his typical awkwardness even be noticed as such? ...No, of course it would be. It's _Siete._ But it's always been that way.

"Not in the least." Six sniffs, "...But you may."

Left with no choice, Six raises his hands a scant inch off his lap... but stops short of moving any closer to Siete, huffing beneath his mask. To his merit, Siete seems to take the hint, speaking in the same moment he reaches out to take the offered hand— just one of them.

"There's an uprising in the West, along the outskirts of Albion," Siete starts conversationally, albeit abruptly, his eyes flicking to the items spread out the length of leather unfurled across his lap: a needle and thread, a pair of small scissors, some parchment and his pen, and a few other items Six isn't as familiar with (along with that damned measuring tape, of course).

"So I've heard." Six grunts. Civil unrest is nothing new to their kind.

"Song is there, but for now we're just watching." Siete hums, jotting down several numbers, the fingers of one hand spreading to support Six's bare palm from below, his skin warm. "My contact seemed to think we'd take the side of the military." He raises a brow, glancing upward from his work, to which Six snorts quietly.

"I'm certain that doesn't surprise you."

"Nah."

Siete tugs his hand a little closer, running his thumb over Six's knuckles with a discerning eye before grabbing his measuring tape and coiling it around the breadth of his palm, and it takes a decent amount of concentration to not yank his hand back out of the other's grasp.

It's a struggle to remember the last time Six took off his gloves in the presence of another; so overly protective of the tools that are his hands—often his weapons, as well— Six tried to stay as equipped as he could in the company of others, save the times he ventured out amongst the Eternals with his half-mask donned. He made _attempts._ Those that saw the light of day were the sparse few out of the many cut short in his head.

"He wanted me to meet his second cousin's wife so _she_ could introduce me to some duke on the military's end," He continues to grouse, "There was going to be a party and everything!"

Even then, other hangups kept him from showing himself as too vulnerable to any one person. There were times he allowed others to come close to him, of course— Fünf's small hands tugging on his cape in a bid for the brightly colored candy he'd brought back with him on a mission, a quiet dinner with Song and Nio, where the silence was comfortable instead of suffocating; Siete's hands on him, now, then, before.

...But the hand Siete holds between his own is drenched in the blood of many, their lives ingrained in the lines of his palm like a spiderweb of jagged scars. Most can't see how deep it goes, but he can. _Six_ knows what he's capable of.

Siete's hand is very warm.

"I don't think they even knew who I was, really, beyond the title, but they were really into the idea of the whole shebang." Siete sighs dreamily.

"How noble of you to refuse a ceremony in your honor." Six adds dryly.

"Don't you remember the last time I had to rub elbows with those Society folks?" Siete smirks with fond remembrance, "I'm surprised they could keep their cuffs off'a me long enough for appetizers to be served."

He remembers the situation rather differently. Six tilts his chin up, scowling beneath his mask. "I'd rather not recall such shameful displays. The smell of that mess—"

"Now, Six, you _know_ I didn't mean to spill that bolognese, we had to esca—"

"—Haunts my waking dreams as if it were the stench of _death_." Six huffs, voice deep.

Siete isn't to be deterred, basically shaking Six's hand in his, the measuring tape coiled around his wrist flapping around limply. "Wh, that— Don't act like you were smelling up to par by day four _either_ , Six! Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that..."

The squeeze of Siete's palm to his is finally too much, his boundaries closing in on himself. Six yanks his hand away mid-flap, pulling it back toward himself as if burned— not far off from how he feels, in truth, and he must be mad because only a madman could smile and feel burned at the same time. "The two are incomparable," he grumbles, cradling one hand with the other.

The measuring tape bunches up in Six's fingers, still wrapped partially around his wrist. He fiddles with the thin fabric as they lapse into silence. Almost frustratingly, Siete takes it in stride, scribbling notes on his piece of parchment, the numbers looking short and crass, a language only the Eternals leader could make sense of, ironic given the gaudy flourish his note had been scrawled in. Six keeps his eyes on his own lap after that, absentmindedly rubbing the texture of his thumb over the tape between _7_ and _8,_ his brows furrowing behind his mask.

"...The people of Albion deserve to be heard, but we can't do it for them, either. It's their future to grasp," he murmurs, squeezing the tape gently in his palm, "...whether they choose to do so or not is up to them."

There's a warm chuckle ahead of him, and Six looks up— Siete has that look on his face again, vague and familiar, just short of cheeky, like he's shuttering a grin.

"Spoken like a true Eternal," He titters slyly, "You really _have_ changed, Six."

Despite the encroaching darkness of nightfall creeping in from his window, Six is reminded of sunlight— the kind that breaks through the peaceful shade beneath a tree, refracted through leaves until it manages to shine right in his eyes. He turns his face.

"Hmmph..." There's a tug on the end of the measuring tape as it's pulled it off Six's wrist, the material dragging across his skin with a subtle hiss, and then it's his opposite hand's turn to be measured— lifted between two of Siete's rough fingers.

"Have you been busy, then, Mr. _Heavenly Howl_?" Siete asks without looking, resuming his measurements.

"...In a manner of speaking," Six grunts noncommittally, refusing to recognize the nickname directly. Siete's ring finger and pinkie slide up to rest against the edge of his sleeve, propping up his hand as he stretches the measuring tape down the length of Six's fingers one by one. "They're preparing for the battle on that island, again... the beasts could awaken at any time. Their rampage will begin shortly thereafter."

" _They're_ preparing?" Siete hums, reaching for something in his lap without looking away from the hand drifting farther into his grip, "Aren't you helping?"

—Hm. Well, Seite isn't wrong. He _has_ been running errands and gathering supplies for the Grancypher crew recently, when it's requested of him, though that's typically where his involvement ends on a competitive scale.

"...I suppose. The work is as menial as it is plenty."

"It doesn't seem _so_ awful," Siete doesn't miss a beat, leaning forward as he slips a light muslin glove procured from his bag over one of Six's hands, loose threads dangling from its folded, unfinished cuff, "Or you wouldn't have stayed instead of coming home."

Six's ears flip forward in attention at the word _home_ — he knows what that means, coming from Siete. It's a soft-edged jeer, a prod at Six's absence from their oft-transient base, albeit a gentle one. As if Siete had any say over where Six should or shouldn't stay— or more accurately, more fondly, more _Siete-like,_ where he does or doesn't deserve to call _home._

(If any such place could exist for him that he couldn't ruin, in turn. Six doesn't know.)

Sighing, Six turns back to Siete just as the other muslin blank is slipped onto his hand, trapping in the heat between their skin. The glare he settles for is hidden behind his mask, but he trusts it's obvious enough in his voice, haughty and cool.

"...I wasn't given much of a choice. I haven't the slightest what I should proceed with in preparation for my next mission... as I haven't been given the details yet. It appears to have slipped the _Star Sword Sovereign's_ mind," his voice lowers, and he leans in an inch to hiss, "perhaps there were too many _silver spoons_ on his tongue."

Siete stares at him for a moment, and then laughs, releasing Six from his touch to scratch his fingers through his own bangs sheepishly, the longer strands of errant hair ruffled in place.

"Ha... I guess I have been a little distracted!" He chuckles, eyes shifting elsewhere, "Let's test the fit with your weapon now, alright?"

Six sighs and closes his eyes, recognizing the blatant deflection as one he's purposely expected to ignore. His palms stay rested on his legs for a moment before he rises, crossing the room to seize the bundle containing his weapon.

... But with his back safely turned to Siete's smirk, Six is more likely to ignore Siete's wishes. Why should he be the only one put on the spot?

"What precisely would you have me do, Siete?"

"—It's like I said before. I just need 'ya to beat some guys up for me, like in that tournament— speaking of Albion, heh."

"If you came to _me_ it must be something you don't want the others doing, or knowing." Turning on his heel, Six tosses the bundle at Siete's head. "Something that isn't as simple as _winning_."

There's no satisfying _thud_ of the item to wipe that smirk off his mouth— Siete catches it one-handed, the force of catching the bundle clear in the stiff line of his body— but the effect is similar, his smile drooping.

"Now, that's not true. You're just the best man for the job."

"So _explain yourself,_ " Six hisses, stalking across the room until he's standing before Siete. Towering over the other for once, Siete has to look up at him, his face unreadable.

"Let me rephrase, alright?" He sighs, but the look in Siete's eyes turns— for lack of a better word, _aggressive_ , as if their positions were reversed. "You're the _only_ man for the job, Six."

Six sucks in through his teeth. Usually, the brimming confidence Siete seemed to have in him, the compliments— it would be enough to get Six to shrink away, but the uncomfortable tension kept close to his chest keeps him from internalizing it, the pressure seeking a way out, its edges growing sharp. " _Siete—_ "

"It's a hand to hand tournament," Siete interrupts, raising a hand in his defense as the other plops the bundled weapon onto his lap, "Who do you expect to take it on? _Me_?"

If he were forced to put it into words, Six might say he feels like he's been punched in the stomach. Not by Seite, though, but by _himself_ — because Siete has a point, and for once it appears to be a _reasonable_ one. He tries and fails to find a suitable response, an indignant flush of embarrassment beginning to crawl up his neck.

It's perfectly simple. Why had he been expected it _not_ to be?

"...You're really not going easy on me today, are you?" Siete chuckles, quietly.

Six is saved from having to acknowledge his obtrusive shortcomings by the only thing that could possibly take Siete's attention off of them: his own. The leather bundle on the other's lap lays open in his hands just enough to reveal the unmistakable golden gleam of the _Six Ruin Fist._

Six pushes down the tension pattering in his chest and reminds himself that Siete deserves this. "You didn't specify what to bring. I made my choice."

"And what a choice!" Siete whines, pulling the weapons from their trappings so the gauntlets rest naked in his lap. He spares Six a look of exasperation, brows in his hairline like it's the most ridiculous thing in the world, "Haven't I apologized _enough_ for that disaster?"

" _No_." Six draws himself up at once at the gall of the question, crossing his arms over his chest to glare down at him, voice deep and full of venom. "Perhaps you'd like to do so again— on your hands and knees, this time."

It's meant to be a joke, but the look of blatant surprise that passes Siete's face makes him regret it at once, especially when it's replaced by facetious worry a moment later.

"Ah," Siete sighs in contemplation, turning sideways in the chair so he can rest his elbow over the top of it, gesturing at Six with an outstretched finger. "Should I?" He casts a look up at Six, who's using every ounce of control it takes to not eject himself out of the room, "You'll have to stand back, though."

Instead of going backward, Six goes forward, wapping Siete's finger aside with a hiss.

"N...not to _me_ ," his bravado slips before he can affix it in place as warmth springs to his face beneath the mask, and he immediately rips his hand back to his chest, appalled, "To everyone _else_."

Siete, in turn, holds his hand to his chest with disdain, his finger still extended as if he'd burnt it, "Ouch, Six!"

Swallowing his frustration with an exaggerated breath, Six stalks between Siete's chair and his bed to sit down, snatching the two gauntlets from the man's lap as he sits with more force than is necessary. If he doesn't get Siete out of here soon he can only see one of two things happening: he kills Siete, or he abandons his cabin as an entirely lost cause.

Six is midway through plunging one of his muslin-gloved hands into the gauntlets when Siete reaches out to put a hand on the other, scooting forward to pry it from his grip.

"—Uh, let me," He says, his brows furrowing, "Stretch your arm out, please."

Siete's propensity to slip right back into the task at hand is maddening in a way Six can never truly depreciate until he's forced to be alone with him. It's enough so that Six does what he asks, stiffly letting Siete push the gauntlet onto his hand, his fingers pressed beneath its surface to hold the base glove taut. "Ah, just like that, thanks."

... And so Six ends up at the mercy of Siete's ministrations once again. Only this time, it's by lamplight, and the tension doesn't ebb so quickly from his chest, leaving a dull ache of restlessness; his daily limit of social interaction has long since been exceeded, but perhaps most frustratingly, it isn't out of needing to mask _how_ he feels, but the complete opposite.

It's being _honest_ that tires him— and one way or another, Siete always seems to be able to pull the truth out of him, whether Six is a willing participant or not.

He wonders if Siete can tell. The silence that now drifts between them isn't _comfortable_ for Six, necessarily, but it is calm in a way that is strangely unlike the previous meeting in Siete's room, and even earlier that same day. Perhaps it's the presence of the Revenant Weapon— the heavy gauntlets block the sensation of Siete's touch from his hands as the other takes measurements of the outside, no longer a sense of physical _heat_ to Six's skin _,_ but a heavier aura settling in its stead. Something shared but rarely spoken of.

"...I didn't realize you'd forgiven me, Six."

Siete is the first to break the silence with a grin, but he doesn't stop working, pulling one of Six's arms forward gently to peer at the glove cuff that trails out beneath the weapon, pinching a threaded needle at its unfinished edge to sew it closer to his arm. "I'm so happy, I could cry... can't you see the tears in my eyes?"

Six rolls his eyes behind his mask— there are no tears despite the accompanying sniffling, of course, he'd been looking— and lets himself be moved this way and that, the back of one of his gauntlets coming to rest atop Siete's knee as the other pushes the needle back and forth, closer to the edge.

"...I didn't realize you were the type who needed forgiveness." He says.

"Need? Nah..." Siete's brows pinch together as he hums, coiling his fingers over the back of Six's gloved fingers to close his hand with his palm, holding it that way. Six shifts a little where he sits, now hunched, but Siete keeps going, pulling the needle and thread to its maximum length before breaking it with his teeth. He doesn't look up. "But I'd like to earn it."

As simple as that, Siete moves on to his other hand.

"Fool..." Six huffs under his breath, because it _isn't_ as simple as that. Only Siete could possibly think— "Haven't you a shred of shame?"

Chuckling, Siete ties off one end of the thread before pulling it through the exposed edge of the fabric, "Do you even see who you're talking to?"

There's nothing Six can say to that, so he chooses to stay silent. Siete finally pulls one of the hefty gauntlets off of Six's hand, peering at it close up.

"Its voice, have you heard it, since then?" He asks, raising a brow. Six's opposite hand feels weighed down by comparison, where it rests palm-up on the leather over Siete's knee.

"...No, not since that night," Realizing the limited lines of thought that could have led Siete to _that_ question, Six peers at him through his mask, accusation at the tip of his tongue. "...Have you heard it? Have you spoken to it?"

That _sword._ He'd nearly let it be the end of him, as if by some ironic turn of poetry. The sword-obsessed legend taken down by the unruly spirit of a weapon itself.

"...Nah. I think it's done with me," Siete grins sheepishly, setting the gauntlet down on the bed beside Six, "Not that I'd listen to it, anyway, considering the trouble it got me into last time."

Uncertain, Six brings his hand lacking a weapon back to his own lap and looks to the darkened window instead, the scent of cool night air drifting in. "You'd be wise not to— if you value your life."

 _'And the lives of others'_ goes unsaid, but only just. Siete's warmth is as apparent as ever when he scoots in a little farther, his knees splayed loosely on either side of Six's legs without going so far as to let them touch. He pulls off the other _Fist_ and gets to work tidying up the muslin glove's edges, drawing straight on the fabric with his quill.

"It's a good thing I have you guys around to take me down a peg or two when I need it, huh?" Siete smirks as he grabs the parchment from his lap, jotting something else down, "I can always count on you and Quatre to cut me in my sleep if this ole' noggin gets too big for its britches."

Acutely, Six recalls how it had felt to be felled by Siete, flecked in blood and defeat and commanding Siete to finish him off. And he'd just _left—_ as easily as he'd come, as easily as he sits across from him now.

As if it were indeed so easy.

Six exhales through his nose, a tinge of bitterness making its way into his voice, quiet as there's no need for anything more when they're this close. "That does appear to be where we _differ_ , Siete."

He can feel Siete pause, at that, lowering his quill with a _scratch_. "...Still hung up on that, huh? I can't figure out if I should take that as a compliment or an insult. Maybe both?"

"You're the one who refused to finish the job," Six's fingers flex in his lap, digging the blunt of his nails into his palm. It hadn't been long after that Six had undertaken his own personal rampage through the ranks of the Eternals— with a different purpose held in the pit of his chest, certainly, but not an ounce less of the terrific power the awakened Revenant Weapons held. "What if I..."

What if he'd unintentionally succumbed to the allure of the Revenant Weapon, just like Siete? He'd wanted to move forward and harness its power, _his_ power in order to grasp his future, by the end of it almost desperate to understand his place in the world, but—

"Yeah, right," Siete snorts. "Do you think I wasn't sure?"

The severity in Siete's voice is enough to rip Six's gaze away from the window, taken aback. The expression he's faced with makes Six feel like he's under a microscope, the other's brows furrowed over the murky intensity in his blue eyes— as if Six's face were bare, his mask overlooked completely. His chest rises and falls quickly as he's choked by a pang of emotion, and as much as he'd like to, he can't bring himself to look away.

It takes Six a moment to realize Siete's hands are moving again, unfurling and smoothing out the cuff of the muslin glove over his wrist with its final measurements, pressing out the wrinkles with the bulk of his palm and thumbs until it lays flat over the edge of his sleeve.

"...Well, in any case, I'm glad I didn't," Siete says lightly, pulling Six's opposite hand toward him to straighten out that glove too, the press of his touch warm and firm, "Aren't you, Six?"

Unfortunately, Siete chooses right then to unintentionally dig his thumb into the covered scar tissue at Six's wrist, the jostling of the still-tender flesh sending an unexpected shock of pain up the length of his arm. Six's knees knock into Siete's with a jerk as he hisses quietly, his free hand shooting out to grab Siete's wrist.

"...Stop," Six feels foolish even as the mumble continues to spill from his lips, his hand dropping from Siete's arm slowly, "There's... a scar..."

The pressure from Siete's thumbs at once abates, the hands around his own wrist going loose. "Oh, shit. Sorry." Siete apologizes, but Six's ears are burning with the admission of weakness, not the innocent error. The languid, nonchalant way he's been allowing Siete to manhandle him rears its head, a million complaints he should have voiced springing to mind, all to distract from his own insecurities.

Siete pauses. "...Can I see?"

Six blinks, confusion flooding him. He sits up a little from the hunch they've both slipped into, the movement pulling his arm farther out of Siete's grip until the white muslin at his hand is framed by the Eternals leaders' two, just short of letting go. "...What."

"I mean, you've kinda seen all mine at this point..." Siete grins, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he's admitting something embarrassing, "It's only fair."

The statement is undoubtedly untrue. Six has only seen those he's caused himself, and— no, he has _seen_ a lot of them, just against his own volition. It had been a mistake to go on that mission near the ocean.

Others he knows from more serious circumstances. Six's eyes drift from the nauseating view of his own hand to Siete's right side, knowing innately the jagged mark nestled beneath his shirt from having had to sew it up himself. Even on the edge of consciousness, Siete had found it in himself to laugh.

Six breathes out through his nose with a huff of aggravation and pushes up his sleeve, revealing the newly-branded scar. He doesn't have to look at it to know it's still pink and ugly— an unseemly and jagged mark received under the effects of an ailment, the ridged talon of the monstrous beast grazing him as he'd reacted a millisecond too late. He'd like to make some grandeur comment— _feast your eyes on the fruits of misguided,_ or _witness the consequences of my error,_ but _—_

"Shameless," is what Six actually mutters, looking at the floor between them.

"Wo~w," Siete preens, "Ain't _that_ a shiner."

"It's just a wound," He grunts. The warmth of Siete's palms drifts upward over Six's bared skin as he's examined, goosebumps rising traitorously across his arm, his jaw tightening behind his mask.

Six's eyes drift to where one of Siete's knees presses lightly to the outside of his own, the warmth increasing as Siete leans in farther. The scent of Six's shower is long gone, replaced only with _Siete's_ and that of leather and armor, maddening in its sense of _other_ , the sanctity of Six's private quarters burnt away before he'd even sensed its departure.

The space Six is looking through closes, and something warm touches his scar— looking up with a jolt punishes him with the realization that it's Siete's _thumb_ , lightly drifting over the edge of the mark.

"They've gotta be six feet under if they managed to get that close, huh?" He murmurs, and Six can't see if there's a smile to go with it.

Shifting upward, Siete's touch moves up the length of the scar— the heat is becoming overwhelming, Six's own shallow breath bouncing off the inside of his mask and back into his face. It doesn't hurt, the pressure is so very light— but Six's arm, no, his whole body tenses visibly as if it did, as if it were excruciating.

Siete's thumb reaches the edge of Six's rolled up sleeve and it feels as if the floor is rising up to meet him. His stomach lurches— Siete isn't looking at the scar anymore, he's looking at _Six,_ a smile playing at his lips just as he suspected, but it's a strange one that he doesn't recognize; small and without flamboyance, almost boyish. Six's skin prickles all over, the hair on the back of his neck and at the tips of his ears standing on end.

Licking his lips, Siete's eyes dart away and back to Six's mask, a chuckle coming first before the smile then shifts into a soft grin— they're close enough that he can see the subtle bob in Siete's throat, the minute tense of his jaw before he speaks.

"It's funny, I—"

Without notice, there's a knock at Six's cabin door.

The sound startles them both— Six more than Siete, instinctively yanking his hand back toward himself and out of Siete's grip, straightening up.

"Come in," He says by reflex before he's even aware of it slipping from his lips, shoving his sleeve back down. His fingers touch his mask to remind himself of its physical presence as the doorknob squeaks a little before turning over.

Siete is slower to move out of Six's peripheral, sitting back up in the chair as Gran's head pokes in through the doorway.

"I _thought_ I heard voices—" The captain begins, but halts short when he spots Siete. "Oh," Gran blinks, brows shooting up, "...should I come back?"

Six has to physically force himself not to overreact and jump up, his fingers digging idly into the top blanket of his bed, overly aware of where Siete's knee still leans against his own.

"No," He shakes his head, his mouth feeling dry. "What is it?"

Gran scratches the back of his head and the door drifts open farther, revealing a few items tucked under his arm and a bag slung over his shoulder.

"Oh, I just... I was going to say thanks for helping Fastiva, earlier. She told me and—well," Gran chuckles, sheepish, "I know swamps aren't really your thing, so I appreciate it."

Six exhales through his nose, turning away in the face of the captain's gratitude. Oh, _that._ This morning. It seems so far off, now— everything does. Siete is watching the exchange with a thin smile, and he raises a brow when their eyes meet. _What swamp?_

"Your thanks are unnecessary," Six says, suddenly feeling tired, "...I was just doing what needed to be done."

"Well, thanks for doing what needed to be done, then!" Gran says anyway, prompting Six to wince, but the captain extends a small flannel-wrapped bundle next, tied daintily across the top. "Fastiva wanted me to bring you this, too. Sorry, but we both know she'll come give it to you herself if you don't take it."

Six sighs again, but it isn't _unkindly_. He finally rises, sidestepping around Siete's legs and over what he realizes belatedly to be the other's belt and swords on the floor to take the package, remarking dryly, "I suppose I'm left with no choice but to accept, for your sake and for mine."

Gran laughs again, as easy going as ever, but his eyes widen in the next moment, and he reaches for one of the scrolls tucked beneath his arm. "Oh, wait," He pulls it out, revealing a leather-bound scroll stamped in a wax cursive _S._ "Since you're here, Siete—from Sierokarte. She said it was urgent but she forgot to give it to you earlier— when she mentioned you'd be here today, I thought..."

Siete leans sideways in his seat until he can take it from Gran without rising _and_ not flipping the chair over, his usual grin pulling across his face. "Ohhh, how thoughtful of Miss Siero," he coos with such enthusiasm Six has to look away in secondhand embarrassment, "and thanks to you too, Captain."

"Don't worry about it," Gran smiles, and turns back to Six in the doorway, looking apologetic. "Anyway, I'll leave you alone now. Sorry if I interrupted Eternal business."

"And what business might that be, I wonder," Six contemplates darkly, and Gran smiles again, used to the typical treatment of Siete among even the Grancypher crew.

"Just business as usual!" Siete quips from behind them, and is ignored.

"It was nice seeing you again, Siete," Gran says, waving at the precipice. "Goodnight!"

"Nighty night, Captain," He waves with two fingers, clearly content with staying seated.

Six sees Gran out the door, suffering through another thanks and inquiry into his well being so sincere he can't help but shrug it off, lest he say something embarrassing in the presence of Siete, or at all. He should feel thankful Vyrn isn't here to steal his mask on top of it.

When Six returns to his room, Siete is on his feet and facing the window, pulling on his belt, the scabbards still attached to it clinking against their holdings as he pulls it into place. The scroll Gran had delivered sits cracked open on the nightstand, still retaining a half-spiral, but the rest of Siete's supplies have seemingly been packed.

Standing awkwardly at the precipice to his own room, he doesn't know whether to close the door or not, uncertain without asking if Siete is planning to leave. He gets his answer when Siete turns to draw his cape over the broad of his shoulders with a twist of his wrist, smirking.

"Looks like that's my cue, Six!" He puffs, valiant, and truthfully Six thinks it looks a little strained, but he lets it go. "The skydom never sleeps, after all!"

"...Fine." Six says for a lack of anything better, stepping away from the door as Siete moves into his space before turning sideways in the doorway, the differences in their heights back at their usual places when he looks down at him, grinning until it creases the corners of his eyes.

"Well... Sweet dreams, Six!"

As usual, Siete doesn't wait for Six to reply before he's off, because he rarely ever does. Sighing, Six puts his hand on the doorknob to close it— before spotting the off-white of his hand on the brass. He's still wearing the gloves. Six slips out the door and into the dark hallway, calling under his breath.

" _Wait_ — Siete." He pulls the mockups off of his hands as Siete stops ahead of him, the skin immediately feeling cold as it's bared to the typical night draft.

"Hm?"

"Should I really..." Six stops, making a muted sound of disdain as he raises his voice cooly, instead, brandishing the gloves in one hand, "I doubt you'll be getting far without these, if you've even got a plan in that empty head of yours."

"Oh," Siete's eyes widen as they land on the gloves, then his face screws up into something unflattering, and he scrubs a hand through his hair, reeling backward. "Nice catch, thanks!"

When he takes them from Six, his smile is back to almost embarrassingly bright and unstrained, so much so that Six nearly feels the need to check there's no one else around to witness it— there isn't, they're alone. Siete steps back.

"Alright, then," He salutes, and for once in his life doesn't seem to be trying to disturb the entire ship, voice low. "See you, Six."

"Goodnight," Six says in return, but only after he's turned to retreat to his room. It sits foreign on his tongue until he's safely tucked away in bed sometime later, the window shuttered and every blanket he owns piled atop him, his cloak tucked over his ears in the comfort of darkness.

 _Ah_ , Six realizes, staring at the ceiling as moonlight struggles through the cracks in his window, _It's because he didn't say goodnight, he said goodbye._

Six didn't ask where Siete was off to _'this time'_ , or for how long, because he never does. He never cares. They all come and go like the stars in the sky: they were either visible, or they weren't, but he could always be reasonably certain they're still _there..._ and if not, they wouldn't be fit to be an Eternal any longer. It's pointless to ask. The ship creaks and heaves in night flight, slivers and shapes of moonlight flickering across the darkness of his room as the Grancypher heaves through the sky and away from wherever Siete had left to.

Frustratingly, _maddeningly_ , though, Six can't help but feel as if he should have asked. Not because it was 'right' from a _moral_ standpoint _—_ he has no real obligation to such things, just as Siete has none toward him, in theory. And it's not just because he _could,_ either, because Six has no use for needless information where it doesn't make sense to gather it, despite the things that seemed to end up on his shoulders in spite of his best efforts otherwise.

His hands feel cold, still. Six turns on his side to tuck them both beneath them, drawing his knees toward his chest to conserve warmth. He closes his eyes— tightly, his brows furrowing inward until Six is burying his face into his hood, into his pillow, his face screwing up. It's too stifling. He ends up staring at the wall between the layers of his cloak and blanket until his eyes drift closed on their own, sleep taking him as it often chose to: on its terms alone.

When Six awakens before sunrise the next morning, drenched in sweat and wrapped up in his cloak and blanket, hair sticking to his face, skin to skin, it's at the forefront of his mind, filtering in obtrusively alongside his first waking thoughts, in line with the slow drift of his thumb across the scar on his wrist:

...That he should have asked because he _wants_ to know.

**Author's Note:**

> I made a siesix playlist: [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5wX2h2qQPuR5wCt5XlZN0A?si=Ne51RZx-SaqpSVFXdfcWnQ)
> 
> Yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rottenjpeg)
> 
> thanks for reading.


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